She produced a sheet of grubby, crinkly white paper, and smoothed it out on the table-cloth. The message ran thus;
Owen,
I can’t make any big decisions at the moment. Please don’t put pressure on me. You know how difficult everything is right now. I’m so confused.
All my love,
Lucy.
‘The strange thing is, Lucy insists she never wrote this,’ said Mother.
‘Which means,’ I concluded, ‘that the stalker, whose name is apparently Owen, wrote the letter to himself, in order to make out he’s been having a relationship with her.’
‘The bloke’s obviously unhinged,’ concluded Mo.
Mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s something even more extraordinary, though.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘The handwriting is Lucy’s!’
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Absolutely. She’s confirmed it to me.’
I shrugged. ‘Then he must have obtained a sample of her writing and copied it. What we are dealing with here is probably obsession – blind, unreasoning obsession. For the time being it remains benign, but we can’t expect that to last much longer.’
‘The girl’s already a shadow of what she was,’ Mother informed us. ‘She’s lost about a stone, I should say.’
‘Really? Then measures need to be taken, sooner rather than later. Will she accept our help, do you think?’
‘She’s keen to meet you. So is her husband.’
‘She’s married, is she? Somehow I imagined her to be single. Have you met this husband?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ Mother’s tone became gossipy. ‘But he’s quite a bit older than she is, and rich – so I’ve heard.’
I drummed my fingers on the table, contemplating a plan of action. ‘May I suggest that we all return to Cambridge this evening? Morris can stay in your spare room, can’t he?’
‘Of course, for as long as he wants.’
‘Jolly good. And tomorrow morning we’ll be able to interview the protagonists in situ, which is usually the best way.’
Dora’s is a pleasant little cellar café in the centre of Cambridge. Being both cheap and handy for many of the colleges it is usually well patronised by the student population. Mo and I agreed to meet Lucy there at two-thirty. It was, in fact, her afternoon off.
As soon as I saw the girl I was struck by how pale and strained she appeared. But beneath the surface I sensed a resilience, a determination not to succumb to adversity.
‘My name is Christopher Webster,’ I announced, welcoming her to our table. ‘You know my mother, I believe.’
‘That’s right,’ she replied in a reedy voice, ‘she’s a client.’
‘And this is my colleague, Morris Rennie.’
Lucy smiled at Mo, then surveyed my attire (which included ulster and deerstalker) with a quizzical arch of the eyebrows.
In the end she seemed to decide that I could be trusted.
‘We’re very sorry to hear about the recent unpleasantness,’ I went on. ‘Has anything happened in the last couple of days that we should know about?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘That’s good,’ I said, kindly.
A waitress came over and we ordered cappuccinos all round.
When they had arrived, Lucy turned to me and asked in a rather naive manner: ‘How can you stop this man following me, then?’
‘Well, the first step is to identify the stalker. He’s likely to live locally, and with an accurate description from you we should be able to track him down soon enough. The second objective may prove harder to achieve: we must persuade him to stop bothering you, either by threat of legal action, or by some other means. Are you quite sure you don’t know him from anywhere – school, or work perhaps?’
‘No, although . . .’
‘What?’ I asked, leaning forward with interest.
‘He does remind me of someone.’
‘Someone in your past?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’
‘It would help us greatly if you could remember, Lucy.’
‘I’ll keep thinking.’
‘Please do.’
I produced the letter Mother had given us. ‘Can you confirm that this is your handwriting?’
‘Yes – it looks like mine.’
‘But you didn’t write this?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Then is there any way Owen – let’s call him Owen – could have got hold of a sample of your writing?’
‘He might have seen one of our appointment cards at the salon. I sometimes fill them out for the clients.’
‘Day, date, time of appointment – that kind of thing?’
She nodded.
‘Well, that’s a possible explanation,’ I said, returning the letter to my pocket. ‘Now, tell me about the incidents themselves. What kind of thing does Owen say to you?’
‘It’s a bit embarrassing,’ she replied, colouring, and averting her gaze.
‘I know. But it could be important.’
‘He says things like; “I still love you,” and: “think of all the good times we had.” Stuff like that.’
‘But you’ve never been drawn into a dialogue?’
‘No, I just run away.’
‘It sounds as if he needs help,’ suggested Mo. ‘Therapy of some kind.’
‘I’ll give the sod therapy!’ boomed a voice from behind us.
We swung round to be confronted by a large, solidly-built, sun-tanned man of about forty, bristling with belligerence.
‘I’m Trevor Paxton, Lucy’s husband. Mind if I sit down?’
‘Of course not,’ I replied, gesturing him towards a seat. ‘Lucy mentioned you might be able to join us today.’
He squashed his bulky frame into the space next to his wife, and immediately took over the conversation.
‘Excuse my french, but this bastard needs stopping. We can’t piss around with psychology.’
‘I understand your feelings, Mr. Paxton,’ I replied tolerantly. ‘It must be very frustrating for you.’
‘There’s only one thing I care about,’ he declared, bringing his fists down on the table with a crash, ‘and that’s the welfare of my wife. Nothing else matters.’ Calming down just a little he asked: ‘Have you got a plan, then, Mister . . . ?’
‘Webster. As I was just saying to Lucy, we’re going on the assumption that this man is mentally unstable.’
‘That’s not an assumption, that’s a fact,’ he returned crassly. ‘You ought to be looking in all the nut-houses around here.’
‘The mental institutions? Yes, that initiative had already suggested itself. But there are several other possible avenues of enquiry. I imagine this business is putting quite a strain on both of you?’
‘We’re coping,’ said Lucy bravely.
‘How long have you been married?’ asked Mo conversationally.
‘Coming up for two years,’ replied Paxton, giving Lucy a proud squeeze around the waist.
She simpered, and snuggled closer to him.
‘We’re trying to start a family at the moment,’ he intimated, lowering his voice. ‘So the sooner we get this character behind bars the better.’
‘I can’t promise anything. But we’ll do our best to resolve the problem, one way or another.’
‘That’s all I ask,’ said Paxton with a ghastly smile. ‘If you need to get in touch, that’s my number.’
He presented a business card bearing the name: Mid Anglian Construction Ltd.
‘Your own company?’ enquired Mo.
‘That’s right. We’re the biggest building contractor in the county.’
‘You must be a very busy man, then,’ I remarked, hopefully.
‘Course I am, but I’ve got a good team – they keep things rolling along when I’m not around.’
I put the card in my pocket and issued an assurance that we would call, if it ever became necessary.
‘That guy�
�s going to be a pain in the arse if we let him,’ predicted Mo, as we left Dora’s and began to meander towards King’s Parade.
‘He’s certainly forthright,’ I conceded. ‘But his heart’s obviously in the right place.’
‘I’m more worried about his brain,’ said my friend bitterly.
He came to a sudden halt in the road. ‘Where exactly are we heading?’
‘As you don’t know Cambridge very well, I thought I’d give you a lightening tour – ending up at Visage beautician’s at six.’
‘That’s nearly three hours away!’ he cried, in some distress. ‘It’s freezing!’
I tutted. ‘Surely the Rennies are made of sterner stuff than that? I thought one of your antecedents commanded in the Crimea?’
‘Irrelevant!’ snapped Mo, buttoning up his coat against the vicious gusts.
‘I absolutely insist on King’s College and the Backs. After that we can argue.’
In the end I had pity on my friend and restricted the extra-curricular sight-seeing to the Fitzwilliam Museum (where the mediaeval armour enthralled), and the Central Library. The latter provided some useful information about mental health provision in Cambridgeshire.
We arrived at Visage just about on time, and received a cordial welcome from the matronly manageress, Alice Elkbourn. She ushered us past the last client of the day (who was undergoing the rigours of a facial sauna), down into the cramped staff room. After exchanging a few pleasantries about my mother we got down to the essentials.
‘Lucy has given us a description of this stalker,’ I said, ‘but I’d be glad of your impression, Mrs. Elkbourn.’
‘I only got a brief glimpse of him,’ she replied carefully. ‘I’d say he was about five foot seven, slightly built, straight mousy hair – collar-length, with a fringe. He had a rather pointed face, pale complexion, nervy looking.’
‘Good. And how was he dressed?’
‘Scruffily. Anorak, jeans, and trainers. Oh, and a black scarf with mauve stripes.’
‘Did you hear him speak?’
‘Yes, he said something about pangs.’
‘Pangs?’ I echoed, confused.
‘That’s right. The pangs of love. It didn’t mean anything to me.’
‘Where were you when he spoke those words?’
‘I was attending to a client at the time, across the other side of the salon. I started walking over, to see what he wanted. Then he just ran off – leaving a plastic bag behind him. I immediately came down here to the staff room, and told Lucy. It’s lucky she wasn’t upstairs, otherwise he might have attacked her!’
‘What was his mental state – as far as you could discern?’
‘He seemed confused. Almost as if he didn’t know what he was doing.’
‘Insane?’
‘Well, you have to be a bit mad to behave like that, don’t you?’
‘Quite.’
‘If this goes on much longer,’ she added gloomily, ‘Lucy might crack up completely. Then I’d have to shelve all my plans.’
‘What plans are these?’
‘I’m opening another salon in Ely next month. Business has been going well and I want to expand. Lucy was going to run the new branch for me.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Now I might have to rely on Chloe instead. Between you and me,’ she confided sotto voce, ‘Chloe’s a bit scatterbrained. She’s been here longer than Lucy, and I know she wants the job, but – well – it would be a last resort.’
‘Lucy is the capable one, then?’
‘She’s a godsend! Only thing is she tends to get down in the dumps sometimes. It was really bad in the spring. She went for weeks without smiling.’
‘What do you think caused her depression?’
Alice shrugged. ‘I know they’ve been trying to start a family for some time – her and Trevor.’ She leant forward to signal that another, juicier indiscretion was on its way. ‘I believe it’s his fault. Low sperm count.’
‘That is distressing,’ I agreed, exchanging glances with Mo.
‘But they’ve got marvellous techniques these days, haven’t they? I kept telling Lucy not to give up hope, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. The thing is, you have to be bright and cheerful for this job – the clients expect it. In the end she agreed to see a therapist.’
‘Really? Which one, do you know?’
‘Dr. Klüver. He’s a local man – very reasonable rates, I believe.’
‘Does she still see him?’
‘Occasionally.’
Chloe Miller was next on our list of interviewees. A raven-haired girl with a surprisingly large mouth, she flounced down the stairs into the staff-room, and, on seeing us, let forth an ‘Ow!’ which was worthy of Eliza Doolittle.
‘These are the private investigators I told you about, Chloe,’ explained Alice, rising from her seat. ‘They want to ask you some questions about the man who’s been following Lucy. I’ll be upstairs if you need me again, Mr. Webster.’
Chloe flopped down on the chair Alice had vacated and proceeded to give us her description of the stalker; it matched her employer’s in almost every respect.
‘Tell us what happened when he came into the salon,’ I requested.
‘I was on reception. He just walked in and said: “Give this back to Lucy – I don’t need it anymore.” Then he handed over a letter. I asked him what his name was, and he said; “Never mind what my name is.” ’
‘Is that it?’
Chloe fingered her luxuriant locks and considered. ‘Oh, then he said something about being despised – ‘despised love’, I think.’
‘Interesting. Then?’
‘Then he ran out.’
‘Mrs. Elkbourn mentioned that he left a plastic bag behind.’
She frowned. ‘No, I don’t remember anything about a plastic bag. There might have been one on the desk, but it probably belonged to a client.’
‘I see. And had you ever seen the man before? Please think very carefully.’
‘No, that was the first time.’ She threw me a worried glance. ‘You’d better catch him before he hurts somebody.’
‘We’re going to do our best,’ I replied, with a reassuring smile. ‘In the mean time I don’t want Lucy walking home on her own. She must have someone with her all the time – especially after dark.’
‘I’ll do my bit. What are friends for?’
‘Thank you. It’s merely a precaution, of course.’
Changing tack slightly, I asked; ‘Do you socialise much with Lucy?’
‘Used to. Then she got into this fitness thing – going to the gym three times a week to work out. I’m not really into that stuff.’
‘Which gym does she use?’
‘The one in Hills Road, I think.’
‘When did this start?’
‘Early in the year. Before that we used to go out together quite a lot. Trevor didn’t like it. He said I was leading her astray.’ She cackled at the thought.
‘Was he right?’
‘No! We were just having a laugh.’
‘Do you like Trevor?’ I enquired, ready to be sympathetic if she answered in the negative.
‘He’s alright. Bossy, though.’ Now it was her turn to be indiscreet. ‘You know he broke somebody’s arm once?’
‘No, I didn’t know.’
‘He had an argument with a bloke in Newmarket, about money. Smashed his arm to pieces with an iron bar.’
‘Is this fact or gossip, Chloe?’ asked Mo sceptically.
‘It’s true, I swear! Trevor only got off because the man was too scared to press charges.’
We pretended to be shocked, but really, based on our admittedly short acquaintance with Mr. Paxton, such a story was all too easy to credit.
That evening we returned to Mother’s house, which is in a small village a few miles out from the town. She proceeded to fill us with steak and kidney pudding, despite my protestations that we had already eaten.
After supper we
retired, happy but bloated, to the drawing room, whereupon the family photo albums were brought out. Poor Mo was regaled with a potted history of the Webster clan, in which he managed to display an uncanny degree of interest.
Over coffee I gave Mother an update on the case. She looked especially thoughtful throughout, and when I had finished made the following suggestion: ‘Why don’t we ask Lucy to act as a decoy? You see it done on television all the time. She could deliberately take a quiet, deserted route home. But all the time you’d be lurking nearby, so that if the man appears you move in and grab him.’
‘It’s got to be worth a try, Sherl,’ reacted Mo, turning to me expectantly.
‘I think we should be able to trace Owen using the information we’ve already got, without exposing Lucy to risk – however small. But as a reserve plan it has obvious merit.’
‘Do you think Lucy would agree, Mrs. Webster?’ asked Mo.
‘She’s a plucky girl,’ commented Mother.
‘I suppose I could ask her therapist whether he thinks she’s up to it,’ I mused. ‘Yes, I’ll go there tomorrow. In the meantime, Mo, you could be visiting Lucy’s other haunts. Try the gymnasium – see if they have an Owen on their books.’
CHAPTER TWO
Dr. Klüver’s consulting rooms were situated in a quaint tudor building, in the shadow of the towering Catholic Church. A steep climb up narrow stairs brought me to his unpretentious threshold.
I entered a small, cheerfully-wallpapered waiting room, which was amply supplied with the customary unthematic mix of periodicals. The receptionist – a lady of advanced years – sat behind a desk, peering at a computer screen, and tapping gingerly on a keyboard. I introduced myself, presented the Baskerville card, and was invited to sit down – with an assurance that Dr. Klüver would not keep me long.
It was, in fact, to be over half an hour before he emerged, during which time I befriended the lady – a Mrs. Pardoe. Being an avid reader of crime fiction she was uncontainably curious about me, my middle name, and my deerstalker hat. I enlightened her on each point, and in return she promised to inform me immediately if she heard anything about a disturbed young man called Owen.
During our conversation a framed document on the wall behind Mrs. Pardoe’s head came to my attention. It was issued by the School of Psychiatric Medicine in Cape Town and certified that Alexander D. Klüver had qualified at that estimable institution in 1987.
The Sherlock Effect Page 10
